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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29731011">the chasm of the night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642/pseuds/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642'>Serendipitous_We_Meet_642</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Eye of the Storm [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon QPR, Gen, Pre Garden of Yerlik, and all their family members, and assorted NPCs, and friends, and only manage to be more afeared, and the entire LOLOMG, at least things are going better in the magnus fandom..., gestures to butterfly labelled stargazing, how about that last episode, i am afeared, i just want Oscar and Zolf to be ok, is that so much to ask for, is this free therapy?, oh nevermind, so i write nice times to make myself less afeared</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:08:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,674</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29731011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642/pseuds/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is afraid of what they will find inside the Garden of Yerlik, even the Cleric of Hope himself.  </p><p>Or: Zolf seeks out a little comfort against the void and the haunting blue glow below.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zolf Smith &amp; Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Eye of the Storm [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the chasm of the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A little moment before the Garden of Yerlik.  I was sad that there was no real conversation exchanged between Zolf and Wilde, so I decided to fill in the gap :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The embers of the fire have long since burnt out by the time Zolf goes looking.  No cool midnight black rushes in to fill the space the firelight leaves behind.  The ghosts below have their own kind of light, a hazy blue glow that hangs around their faded forms like haloes.  It keeps the darkness at bay, for better or worse.   
</p><p>That glow is the stuff of nightmares, but somehow the stuff of dreams, too.  He doesn’t get any whipping seas anymore, no more towering gods or cryptic messages.  Now he dreams of the parts of his life where he has been happiest, and the parts where he has been most miserable, and the bits that make him feel hopeful despite it all.  Dreams of what has been, and what might be.  This glow could fall into the latter or the former, all depending on how tomorrow goes.
	</p><p>He’s not ready, of course.  He doesn’t think he ever could be, not really.  He knows the others aren’t either, but he knows they’ll all wake up and go at it with everything they’ve got tomorrow anyhow, because that’s just who they are.  Call ‘em the London Rangers, call ‘em the LOLOMG, call ‘em whatever you like – they’re still working on the name, even now.  No matter what, they are what they will always be, even if everyone they met along the way isn’t still there to stand beside them.
</p><p>But Zolf knows firsthand that doesn’t make it any easier to confront the empty space of those left behind.  Nothing does.  Which is why he seeks out Wilde.  He finds him slumped at the edges of camp, looking out at the Garden with those gold-flecked eyes of his.  
</p><p>It’s funny.  He’s gotten used to the hair by now, that shock of white that stares back at him whenever he chances a glance at a mirror.  But the absence of the scar, that gets Zolf every time he looks to Wilde now.  
</p><p>A year and a half of sharing each other’s pain, sharing each other’s battles, sharing each other’s company.  A year and a half of fighting for their lives and the lives of everyone else without knowing what they were even fighting against, and now they’ve finally got a shot, and Zolf is scared, is so <em>terrified<em>, of what is to come.  Their situation may not be without hope, but it is certainly without sense or safety.  What they’re walkin’ into, they might never walk out.
</em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>And yet, all Zolf can focus on in this moment of all moments is the fact that when Wilde turns to look at him, the smile that drifts its way onto his face is whole, complete.  It’s not what it was in London, or god forbid, Paris.  It’s not devil-may-care or an invitation into a darkened bedroom.  It’s just Wilde, with no crack in the porcelain to show all the stuffing inside.  Instead, he opens his chest to Zolf freely, a ticket to the show for an audience of one.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“How’re you?” Zolf asks.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Oh, you know.”  Wilde doesn’t elaborate.  He doesn’t need to.  “And you, Zolf?”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Zolf shrugs.  “Oh, y’know.  Well as can be expected, I suppose.”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Good, good.”  Wilde doesn’t seem to be exactly with it, but neither is he absent-minded.  Wilde is never absent-minded.  He’d probably rather die than- Ah.  Well, too late for that, then.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Are you ready?” 
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>It’s a one-word question with so much unspoken pressing up behind it.  Zolf decides to honor the simple complexity of that.  “No.”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Wilde meets his eye.  His smile returns, a hesitant yet unrestrained thing.  “Good.”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Zolf settles beside him, leaning on the same log Wilde lounges against.  “D’you think we can really do it?” 
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I think we can certainly try.”  Wilde’s eyes catch the glow from below, each spot of blue reflected in those thoughtful ‘windows to the soul’… or some such nonsense.  Wilde’s the poet, not Zolf.  “Besides, I’ve seen what comes next, and it doesn’t scare me.”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“What does?”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Wilde’s reaction isn’t what it once would have been – Zolf knows that much.  It’s not a snarky comment bubbling up or the raise of an eyebrow, the raise of a shield.  It’s a twisted, heartfelt thing that makes Zolf ache in ways he doesn’t understand yet how to understand.  “To tell you the truth, Zolf, I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t go back, and others do.”  
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Zolf sucks in a breath.  Yeah, he can understand that feeling.  “We’ll figure it out, one way or the other.”  It’s not that reassuring a promise, but it’s the best he’s got.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“And how do you know that?  Hope?”  Wilde isn’t taunting.  It’s taken Zolf nearly two years, but he’s figured that much out.  He isn’t sure what Wilde is trying to do here, besides play the skeptic to protect himself from the ruins of expectation.  He can’t blame him for trying.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I just do.”  Zolf regards Wilde for a long moment, before turning his gaze back to the Garden, back to the pockets of blue flame that are both a threat and a promise.  The source of so many problems, and perhaps just as many answers.  “Do you think we’ll find anything?”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I think…”  Wilde drifts off into thought.  He comes back to himself, that old cocky smile of his spreading up to his eyes.  Same old Wilde.  Just like this old, broken band of mercenaries (if they can still be called that) – they may have changed over the years, shifted, warped, but they’re still the same in all the ways that matter.  “I think all the answers are out there.  We just need to ask the right questions.”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Pretty profound of ye,” Zolf snorts.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“What can I say?  I didn’t get here by good looks alone.”
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>They share a look that communicates more than Zolf could ever begin to unravel in words.  Wilde is the first to look away, angling his gaze toward the stars above.  Zolf hadn’t even noticed before, but up high like this, everything is so much sharper, so much clearer.  It’s like getting a front row seat to the universe.
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>“I’ve got another gem for you,” Wilde says, his eyes now the perfect mirror for those fluttering pinpricks of light.  Zolf finds that looking up might not offer the best view, after all.  “We are all in the gutter... but some of us are looking up at the <em>stars<em>.”


</em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>That startles a laugh out of Zolf, not necessarily ‘cause it’s funny or nothing, but simply because it’s Wilde.  “Where’d you get that one from?”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Wilde trades a grin with him.  It’s good to see him smiling so much.  It’s good to see him at all, after everything that’s happened.  “Myself.  You really think I’d outsource this kind of hard-won wisdom, Zolf?”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Hm.  And what does it mean?”  Zolf has his guesses already – even if he’s not some fancy poet, he’s still got common sense – but he likes hearing Wilde explain his poetic fancies all the same.  It used to be a pastime of theirs, back in Japan.  “Guess the Poet” – or “Who Said That Shite?” as Zolf liked to call it – was a close runner-up to filling their admittedly sparse free time, but it never quite beat out the look that would come over Wilde’s face whenever he launched into an explanation of villanelles or rhyming schemes or beats.
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“I suppose it means that no matter your lot in life, there are always things out there that you can find to make it a bit lighter.”  Wilde’s eyes are back on those stars again, and they shine brightly, the corners glinting with an unshed something.  Zolf understands that, at least.
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Maybe he didn’t sign up for this, back at the beginning.  Back in that alleyway, when a gaunt woman had skidded under Bertie and told him there was a problem.  Back when the most important thoughts rolling around his head were ones of drowning and guilt.  Back when the biggest stakes he had to deal with were making it through the day intact.
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>Maybe they’re about to enter a garden filled to the brim with sickness and despair, and maybe not all of them will make it out.  Certainly none of them will make it out the same as they went in.  Maybe the world is doomed beyond all repair.
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>Zolf has broken his back under the weight of the world one too many a time.  He has come so close to shattering throughout this lifetime of misery and mistakes, of faith and repentance, of death and living to tell the tale – yet somehow, against all odds, he hasn’t broken.  None of them have.  They’re all still fighting.  Even if they’re not all still here, they’re all still looking hopefully toward the future, despite the toll the past has taken on them.  Despite how unworthy the world is of that gaunt woman, this helpful halfling, this compassionate orc, this eager half-elf.  This tired poet.  <em>They’re all still fighting.</em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>The constellations overhead are so close, it feels as though he could simply reach out and touch them.  And there he is, the impossible Oscar Wilde.  Sitting at his side, leaning gently against him.  Against all odds.  Nearby, their team rests, prepares for what comes next.  Ready to fight on, no matter what.  
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>And Zolf knows a single truth with terrific certainty: They’ve got this.  They can do this.  Against all odds.  Even if he’s wrong, well.  At least Zolf got to see the stars one last time.  At least he got to see Wilde. 
 That’s enough.  (It has to be.)
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Hey, Wilde.” 
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Mm?”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Thank you.  I mean, I just- thanks.”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Glad to hear someone appreciates the help I give,” Wilde says.  The cheeky bastard.  Zolf flashes him a look.  Wilde flashes it right back, before adding quietly, “Anytime, Zolf.”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Yeah?”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>“Of course.”
</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
      <em>They both turn their gazes to the stars, falling into the cool darkness of the silent sky.  Zolf doesn’t mind.  The stars are brighter than the ghostly blue glow ever could be.</em>
    </em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from "Constellations" by the Oh Hellos, which is literally the best song/band in the world (no, you can't convince me otherwise).  Quote from Oscar Wilde, and interesting factoid about Oscar Wilde's eyes from me, because did you know that his eyes were as enigmatic as the man himself?  Because I didn't until I did a lil research for this fanfic.  </p><p>Apparently, many people in his life have attempted to describe their color, and it has been vaguely agreed upon that they were blueish with gold flecks, but they had a crazy habit of changing their color depending on the setting and have also been described as brownish, hazelish, greenish, goldish, etc.  Wilde is wild, man.  </p><p>Have a nice day, folky friend!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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